Sing Like a Songbird
by Sassy Bigfoot
Summary: It was like a chill, stealing over her spine, in between her fingers and toes. Someone was in her apartment. Something...not human.
1. THE WRITING ON THE WALL

**SING LIKE A SONGBIRD  
**  
ring around the rosie,  
a pocket full of posies,  
ashes to ashes,  
we all fall

d o w n

* * *

 **I  
** THE WRITING ON THE WALL

* * *

Missing: a girl, her son, and a dog.

She scoffed at this description inwardly. She was hardly a _girl_ anymore, even if her thick black bangs made her seem twelve rather than twenty. No, a more fitting description would simply read _lost property_. To Randy, that's what they were. Item #1, #2, and #3, are reported missing, cap'n. No, no sign of them since dawn. Should we send out a search party? Of course! It's the principle of the thing, property isn't supposed to be running off without permission of the captain!

As if sensing this black humor stemming from his owner, the dog picked up his ears and looked at her reproachfully. She patted Major on the head absently, hearing the comforting thump of his tail against the passenger door. Major was a beautiful dog, a five year old German Shepherd with a cunning black mask and a perpetually serious expression.

Randy had bought him when Major was just a puppy. He was supposed to be destined as a drug-dog but was deemed too friendly and easy-going for the force; disgustedly, Randy had brought him home, and Rosie considered him their protector.

"Huh, boy? You gonna keep us safe in the big city?" she whispered so as not to wake her sleeping son. Major wagged his tail, ears going back, and set his muzzle on her thigh. She patted his head and checked on Sebastian in the rearview mirror. He was sleeping in the way all small children sleep, head thrown back, mouth slightly open, eyes sunken into his small, fragile head. His blonde hair was catching the last rays of the sun and it looked like a halo of blazing light.

He was so delicate looking. Her hands tightened on the steering wheel.

 _(it's not just sebastian you're all very delicate)_

She merged seamlessly into traffic and felt a little seed of hope in her chest when she saw the sign GOTHAM LEFT LANE ONLY EXIT 34. Ten miles, and they would be in Gotham. Five miles after that, they would be downtown. And half a mile after _that_ , she would be putting Sebastian to sleep in a proper bed and having a cup of coffee with her sister, Aimee.

Staying with Aimee would have to be a temporary measure. Not only because extended periods of time with her sister tended to turn her into the Hulk, but also because Randy would know she came here. Where else would she go? Aimee was her only option. The idea—almost a vision, with its clarity—rose in her mind of Randy kicking down the front door and dragging her out by her hair. _My wife!_ He would bellow, sing-song, his eyes slitted and teeth bared in that heartlessly broad smile, _Let's go home!_

And he would drag her down the stairs, bump, bump, bump, before throwing her in the trunk of the car. She squeezed the wheel tighter.

( _Stop it, Rosie!)_

There was a good chance he wouldn't even follow them. He would make up some story—she's away in Canada, doing some sort of artist trip, you know those women, always trying to find themselves-

 _(yes if it wasn't for major he would make up a story like that except—)_

Except she'd taken Major.

She patted the dog's head again and tried to flush out this thought but it persisted, nagging in the back of her mind like a fishhook. Taking her son was one thing. Randy and Sebastian had never gotten along, not after THE INCIDENT, but Randy considered Major _his_ dog.

By taking her son, she'd crippled him. But he could crawl.

But taking Major had ripped his balls off. She knew that. Wasn't that the very reason she'd done it? Randy would, after a fashion, function on his own after coming to terms—however violent—that his son and wife had left him. But not only had his wife left him, she'd cleaned out the checking account and taken his fucking _dog_.

 _You cold, heartless bitch_ , she heard his voice in her head, _You couldn't even leave me the mutt? You had to take_ everything _?_

Yes, she thought back selfishly, feeling those hot, livid coals of anger begin to burn in her chest once more. Yes, I took my son and Major because that's _my_ property. He was lucky she hadn't burned the house down or taken a knife to the tires of his precious pickup truck.

With more force than was necessary she flicked her left turn signal on, and took the exit ramp down into Gotham.

* * *

She _almost_ made it to Aimee's house.

 _Almost_.

She had gotten lost in the busy streets of Gotham. The whole city was intimidating. High, glassy skyscrapers that crowded every street like jagged teeth; tight, narrow little alleyways that crooked off in different directions like a spider's web; wealthy, impeccably dressed people strolling past the homeless who looked tired and dirty and broken somehow. The motorists were unforgiving and she got flipped off twice before getting cut off in the middle of downtown.

Aimee had a fairly nice apartment, some modest little flat near a club called Reflections. She had a decent income these days, what with being that fancy food-critic for a magazine somewhere. Rosie was about to turn around and find a parking garage somewhere when she saw him.

Her heart leapt in her throat.

That straight, flat nose with a full mouth and a scruffy beard. It was the beard she immediately recognized but when he lifted his hand to scratch his nose she caught a glimpse of a shiny gold watch. A Rolex rip-off, the kind she had gotten Randy for his birthday last year. He was wearing a baseball cap and had sunglasses on but she would have bet everything in her wallet, which was close to six hundred dollars in cash, that it was Randy.

He wasn't sitting in the pickup truck, but some nondescript little car he probably rented. She would have obviously recognized the ridiculously oversized shiny black truck that Randy prized.

He was _here_. In _Gotham_.

A feeble, desperate part of her tried to insist that it could be anyone. Plenty of guys were growing beards these days, and lots of them probably had fake watches, and one or two could have that flat, smushed nose. It didn't _have_ to be Randy.

Her throat felt as though a wet, hot hand were squeezing it, and the urge to pull out of traffic and floor it was overwhelming. He had outsmarted her—he knew she would go to her sister's, he knew she would end up here. She felt it in the spaces between her ribs, stealing over her spine like an old chill; it was Randy. There was no doubt about it.

Some cold, scaly voice spoke up in the back of her mind. _If you break or turn or do anything to draw attention, he'll see you. And if he sees you, you're dead. He'll follow you and wait until you run out of gas and then beat you to death in a gas station while your child looks on. Is that what you want to happen, Rosebud_?

She numbly shocked to discover that the calculating, raspy voice in her mind was that of her father's, who had been dead many years. _No, what you should do is simply keep driving. Turn at this corner and find a motel._

Yes, that's what she would do. She inched past Randy in the car, fighting every urge to turn and gape at him like he was a circus monkey. Keep driving, find a motel, and ditch the car. Thank God she had used her neighbor's car and not the one Randy had bought for her.

 _(this is what happens when you marry a cop Rosie this is what happens are you happy now?)_

Rosie turned carefully, handling the car like it was fine china, and chanced a look in the rearview mirror.

If Randy had seen her—if indeed it _was_ Randy—then he made no sign.

She drove mindlessly, blindly, her mind running in caged little circles. What if it wasn't Randy? What if it was just some innocuous man waiting for his girlfriend or his boyfriend or his mother or a dentist appointment, for all she knew? But even if it _was_ a random man who happened to look like Randy…even if it _was_ just some innocent bystander…

"It's not worth it," she murmured to Major, who was looking at her with his ears perked and alert. "It's not worth the risk."

Sebastian stirred in his car seat and Rosie looked behind her again. She wasn't just doing this for her, she was doing it for Bash. He deserved a good life, a life that wasn't filled with a looming, threatening father and a cowed, shrill mother.

She was also doing this because of THE INCIDENT but she told herself not to think about that.

It took twenty or so minutes until she was on the very outskirts of Gotham, that sprawling, smog-choked city. An apartment building of dirty brick stood in front of her, as though the car had driven itself. A woman was sitting on the front porch, smoking a cigarette and watching cars go by. She couldn't have been a day over seventy-five but was wearing a strappy pink halter top, the kind prepubescent girls wear in an attempt to look sexy. Her hair was fluffy white in a sharp contrast to her dark skin.

Rosie got out of the car and slowly approached. "Hi," she said, and her voice sounded strange and rusty to her own ears. "I'm looking for a place to spend the night."

The woman looked her up and down, taking a drag on her cigarette. "Ayuh," she replied, "Guess y'are."

She stood there awkwardly, shifting her weight. "Do…do you maybe know…?"

Her voice trailed off.

Randy's voice, sardonic and cutting, piped up in the back of her head. _That's my girl! Always stuttering and stammering like she was raised in a fucking BARN, don't you have any manners? I know your mother was a piece-a-shit but your FATHER at least should have told you that you stand up straight and look someone in the eye!_

Rosie closed her eyes briefly, tightly, willing her mental Randy to shut up. "Do you know of a motel in the area that accepts pets?"

The woman did not immediately answer, and Rosie began to assume she was being ignored. It dragged on for a very long, unpleasant few seconds while the woman sized her up, and then she finally spoke. "How far y'runnin', baby?"

"I'm sorry?" Rosie stammered. "I'm—"

"How far y'runnin'? Is Gotham ya last stop? Or are ya gonna keep on keepin' on?" The woman asked, and stubbed out her cigarette. She poked one bony finger towards the car. "Ya got a kid, a dawg, and what looks like half y'life packed in a shitty lil' car. You gonna run to California? California's shit."

Rosie just blinked and stared. "I'm…I'm going to stay in Gotham," she blurted out, "My, my sister is here, I just…"

 _(you just couldn't go in to see her because a man who just LOOKED like your ex-husband was waiting for you)_

"I just need a place to stay," Rosie finished helplessly. She was horrified to find that tears were starting to well up in her eyes. She did not want to cry in front of this strange woman.

"I ain't a charity case," the woman said gruffly. "Y'want the Sisters, they run a shelter. Downtown."

"I just need a motel! I have money," Rosie gulped and tried to steady herself. For god's sake, she was acting like an infant.

Now the woman looked interested. "You got a hundred bucks?"

"Wh-what?" she bit her lip and shook her head automatically. "Wh—I mean, yes, yes I do, why?"

"Gimmie a hundred bucks and y'got yourself an apartment," the woman replied flatly. "I gotta place upstairs that I can't get rid of. Hundred bucks, first month's rent."

She was scared and lonely and in a huge, dangerous city. This was a bizarre day, and she could still feel the flutterings of panic in the base of her throat like a trapped bird. A hundred dollars was amazingly, suspiciously low, but all she could think of was _my own apartment. My very own apartment and I don't have to scrape and bow to Aimee or take a punch from Randy it's MINE_.

"Yeah, yeah, I got a hundred bucks," she said, and practically tripped over herself getting back to the car. Major was sitting very still, his ears back, but that reproachful look was back on his face. "Shush," she scolded him, as though he could tell something was very wrong with this place, this odd little neighborhood on the outskirts of Gotham. It _seemed_ clean enough, with several two family houses stacking the street like wedding cakes, most of them quite past their prime. It was a crowded, almost generic neighborhood, with the apartment building taking up most of the space.

There was a little chainlink fence surrounding a small, sad playground in the back of the apartment. Bash could play on there, maybe, definitely on the slides and maybe on the swings. Rosie counted under her breath, hiding the wad of cash under the steering wheel so the strange woman wouldn't think she was rolling in wealth.

She folded five twenties in her hand and then got back out of the car. The woman was looking at her with a wry, amused expression, and it was like being examined by a particularly old doctor.

"Here," Rosie said, handing her the money.

The woman counted it, very slowly, as if checking to make sure Andrew Jackson wasn't wearing an out-of-place turtleneck on any of the bills, and then tucked it into her bra. "C'mon. Bring the rugrat and the mutt if y'like."

* * *

Despite the apparent normalcy of the neighborhood there were still tremors of misgiving in Rosie's mind as she followed the woman up the stairs. The older woman wasn't much for talk but she briefly introduced herself as Doris, and somehow managed to half-smoke a cigarette in the time it took to walk up two flights of stairs.

Major heeled very closely, his ears back, tail low, looking around and obviously wanting to sniff everything. Doris gave him a look.

"That dog don't piss everywhere, does he?"

Rosie switched the sleepy Bash to the other hip and her brow furrowed. "Major? No, no, he's a service dog."

Doris frowned harder, the wrinkles in her face setting up like concrete. "Don't bite, does he?"

"Absolutely not," Rosie said with much more surety. "He's very well behaved."

"Ayuh," Doris agreed, sucking her hollowed cheeks in to take another drag, "but good dogs bite, y'know."

"He doesn't," she insisted, feeling prickly and provoked. Major was a handsome dog and wouldn't hurt a fly; he withstood Bash's sticky, grabby hands and encouraged the three-year-old to pull on his ears and play fetch with him. At five, he had reached the mellow middle age which would last far into his twilight years.

As Rosie followed behind Doris she was nearly overcome with hysterical giggles when she realized that the old woman was wearing a thong beneath her bright bicycle shorts. Who _was_ this Doris? Some sort of ancient prostitute? There didn't seem to be anyone else in the building but Rosie could hear the steady, thickening cry of a baby from somewhere below them. Besides that, it was unnaturally still.

Looking out the window at the first floor landing, she saw the rusty old playground again, and from this angle she had a better view of the street. It really looked like a normal little neighborhood that you could find anywhere. Whenever she heard about Gotham, it was always in conjunction with crime, money, or that vigilante who was currently running amok. Batman, she remembered seeing in the headlines. From this distance it was probably a ten minute drive into downtown, and the street was fairly busy. She made a mental note to keep Bash inside the playground and away from the street.

At the second story, Doris shuffled over and unlocked one of the two doors. Rosie braced herself for the stench of mold or mildew, but all she got was a whiff of fresh paint. She had already made up her mind to stay for the night and then see if she could get part of her money back tomorrow, after she went to see Aimee. But at least for tonight, it would work. Even if there were roaches and mice, she would make it work.

But to her pleasant surprise there were no signs of wildlife, roaches or otherwise. In fact, almost everything looked brand new—the walls were newly painted and there was new carpet on the floor, some sort of blue and tan seashell print. It was small, with one bedroom and a main living space with a small kitchenette. There was no furniture other than a stripped mattress on a plain little bedstead, along with some kitchen appliances.

"It's perfect," Rosie said, and meant it. It was small, but there was space in the corner of the bedroom for Bash's crib and Major would, of course, sleep at the foot of the bed as always. As for a couch or a television, that wasn't very important at the moment. They would just stay one night—perhaps two—and then be on their way.

Doris stubbed out her cigarette. "Glad y'like it."

She turned to go and Rosie was struck with an odd chill. Something about the relief that ebbed into Doris's tone triggered some sort of apprehension. "Why wouldn't anyone take this apartment?" Rosie asked.

Her tight, wrinkled old face was unfathomable. "Gets real drafty at night," she snapped, and then left.

* * *

That night, lying on the cold, creaky boxspring, Rosie found out. Or, at least, began to find out. She wouldn't truly find out until a month later, when her whole life would change drastically and permanently.

Bash was asleep, thank God, after a rowdy afternoon of demanding to watch television and then sobbing after he couldn't eat pretzels for dinner. Major had gone through the whole apartment, sniffing everything with his tail up and wagging, as if inspecting a perimeter. It hadn't been that bad of a day, despite Rosie constantly checking over her shoulder to see if Randy had gotten bored and decided to do a long, lazy loop around the city.

She awoke in the night with a raging thirst. Slipping quietly out of bed, so as not to disturb Bash or Major, she padded quietly to the kitchen and flicked on the lights.

For the briefest instant, she saw something written on the wall.

Rosie clapped a hand to her mouth to stifle a little scream, but a high, shrill noise escaped her nose anyway. It had been so sudden, like a camera flash, but it was gone now. Gooseflesh had broken out all along her arms and thighs and she scolded herself for being such a ninny.

She was nervous as a cut-cat and couldn't help it. Unable to help herself, she went over to the far wall and touched it, half-expecting to come away with paint-sticky fingers. The smell of new paint was quite strong, now.

What _had_ it been, then? Her imagination?

 _(your imagination's been quite erratic lately Rosie dear)_

Yes. Yes it had. First seeing Randy in front of Aimee's apartment and now, seeing literal writing on the wall? She was going crazy, she was certain of it. This whole day had a warped, twisted feeling to it, like a Twilight Zone episode or the distorted lens on a camera. She had left her husband three days ago, and now she was sleeping on a naked mattress with her only belongings in the world scattered around her. That alone was reason enough to be a little…well, kooky.

Still, she stayed. Squinting very hard at it, she thought she saw something.

Moving as though in a dream, she went back to the lightswitch and turned it on rapidly. The bright flash of light illuminated the whole kitchen and as her pupils contracted once more, she could see the writing again.

If it could even be _called_ writing.

It was hidden behind a coat of fresh paint and only visible because the stark color had bled through. It really needed two or three coats to cover it up completely; in broad daylight or lit by a flash of light, the writing was quite clear.

HA

HA

HA

HA HA HA

It was deranged, erratic laughter. She could hear it, echoing faintly in her head, and shivered. Her eyes were wide and glassy.

Abruptly she shut off the light and went back the bedroom. She was overtired. It had been a long day. She wasn't even convinced this wasn't some sort of odd, mildly unsettling dream. Rosie fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow, and decided just then that it _had_ been a dream. The writing would be gone in the morning.

As she slept, faint laughter, manic and hysterical, floated unfettered in the hallways of her mind.

* * *

 _I'm eager to hear any opinions, good or bad, have any sort of feedback, or just a random comment! :D I really enjoyed writing this and I'm having fun planning where I want this story to go. Any watches are welcome and reviews are appreciated! xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot_


	2. SING A SONG, ROSIE

**II  
** SING A SONG, ROSIE

* * *

Aimee Springfield sat back in her chair and stared at the phone. She had gotten a call yesterday from her sister, for the first time in a year; she still couldn't believe it. Rose was finally leaving Randy? After all this time? Their marriage had only lasted three years but they had been together since Rose was fourteen. Poor, stupid little Rosie, dating a high school student while she was still in a training bra.

Of course that wasn't her fault. Rose always wore her heart on her sleeve and it made her clumsy and stupid about relationships. Aimee had thought her relationship with Randy wasn't too serious—but then again, the age gap between herself and her sister was drastic. Eight years wasn't that long of a time when both parties were adults, but as children, it might as well have been twenty years. While Aimee was dating a high school senior while she was still in middle school, Rose was applying to colleges and impressing her professors.

So she had gotten sloppy. Their mother, crazy bitch that she was, hadn't been paying close enough attention to her youngest daughter. And neither had Aimee. Nobody had noticed poor, stupid little Rosie until it was too late, and she was seventeen, pregnant and then engaged in one dizzyingly stressful week.

Wasn't that why this was so surprising? Because even after sensing that Randy was no good and telling her sister, Rose dug in her stubborn little spurs and _married_ that bastard. There was a stubborn streak in her a mile wide. She wore a pink wedding dress and smiled up at Randy so happily, and her then-husband had given her that broad, heartless smile. That _horrible_ smile.

He was trouble, and everyone knew it. But nobody said anything. That's how their family worked—if you had a problem, you solved it yourself. Their household was like a giant survival show, where everyone was watching their own backs.

"You don't have to do this," Aimee had told Rose while zipping up her wedding dress. It was the first time she had spoken these words aloud. "You don't have to marry him."

"Yes I do," Rose insisted, and her hand flew to her belly defensively. "We're getting _married_ , Aimee. We have a child together. Can't you just be happy for us?"

But of course she couldn't, because poor stupid little Rosie never knew what was best for her. Aimee would have liked to see her sister go to college, get a job, and have a life—but it was her fault she hadn't. She had dropped the ball. She had stopped managing her sister's life, and when that happened, Rose got into trouble.

Aimee got up and went to the refrigerator, opening it and staring at the food mindlessly. Her sister was leaving Randy. Finally. Everyone noticed the bruises, the increasingly frequent trips to the hospital for concussions, broken ribs, slipped discs. And it was always _Oh I slipped in the tub_ or _Oh I just tripped over a root while I was walking in the woods_.

Everyone saw straight through it. Her sister was married to a thug, a cop who could have been promoted to detective by now but there was one or two little slips in his career. One or two little cases of "excessive force".

And that broad, horrible, toothy smile.

Aimee shivered.

 _(you knew he was bad for her and trouble and a monster and yet you said nothing)_

She _had_ said something! Before the wedding and after the honeymoon, a trip to Hawaii that had been cut short by a broken wrist. Rose said she slipped and fell while walking on the beach and hit a rock funny.

 _You didn't believe that, even then_ , a reptilian voice spoke up in her mind. _You told her that he was a bum, but you didn't insist. If you had, she would have left him._

That was true. They didn't get along very well but Aimee sensed that Rose looked up to her, in that odd, intimate way that only little siblings understood. If she had pressed, she was certain that Rose would had told her everything, because as soon as she came back from their honeymoon, there was something different.

 _(you saw that she was afraid of her husband and afraid for her baby you saw that and said NOTHING)_

"I _told_ her," Aimee said aloud, her voice flat and startling to her own ears. There was a good deal of reproach in it and she heard her own pride in her tone. "I _told_ her he was an ass."

Was that why she didn't insist? Because her little sister was stubbornly holding onto her own pride, insisting that Randy was a good man, that she'd picked a good husband, and they would have gotten married anyway, even without the baby. And so Aimee sat back and let the marriage play out, holding onto _her_ own pride.

She wasn't going to beg her sister.

She should have. But she didn't.

Aimee closed the refrigerator and then opened the cabinet to get a wineglass. It was eleven in the morning but her sister was leaving her husband, and she needed a drink.

The bottle was almost empty, really, she should just finish it off. She poured herself a generous glass and realized there was still quite a bit left in the bottle. Oh well. She took a sip—more of a gulp, really—and savored it. Clos Du Bois, probably 1982. No, '83. Almost forty bucks a bottle but worth every glass.

Rosie was leaving her husband. Randy would follow her, no doubt about it, and there might be trouble. She made a mental note to talk to her husband about getting a restraining order.

Her phone buzzed and she jumped.

 _(speak of the devil)_

"Hello?"

"Hi, Aimee," came that cheerful voice, and she flinched. "How's things?"

"Pretty good, Randy," she replied carefully. "Just sitting here trying to write my article."

 _Don't lie too much_ , she told herself firmly, _he's a cop, he's trained to pick up on that_.

"Oh really? How's that going?" Randy asked. She could hear a little crack in his voice, that seeping of malice into the tone. He didn't want to chit-chat.

She looked at her blank word processor, the little cursor blinking, and lied easily, "Pretty good. I'm about five hundred words in, so halfway done."

"That's great. Hey, I just wanted to call and make sure Rose got there safely."

 _Careful now. Not too much surprise. Not too much familiarity_. It was like trying to bait a mousetrap without getting her finger caught. But Randy would do a lot more than pinch—he was a mean man, she knew that. They would definitely need a restraining order and perhaps a police car sitting out front before he got the idea.

"Rose? Rose isn't here," she said, sounding confused. "Why would Rose be here?"

"She didn't call?" Randy said, and then laughed. Oh, how she hated that laugh. _Poor, stupid little Rosie,_ said that laugh, _Always forgetting what she needs to do._ He was her husband, but _she_ was the sister. He didn't have a right to laugh like that. "She's coming up to visit for a few days. I told her to call you and not just drop in unannounced."

"Oh, well she didn't call," Aimee said, and tried on a little laugh of her own. It sounded more tired than anything, but it would do the trick. "That's just like her. I'll have her give you a call when she gets here, all right?"

"Thanks so much," Randy said, and she heard relief in his voice, but she could just imagine the satisfied look on his face. "Talk to you soon."

"Yep," Aimee agreed, "Bye."

She hung up the phone and glared at his name in her Contact list. What a good trick—he knew Rose only had one place to go, and that was running to the arms of her big sister. He would call, pretending that poor, stupid little Rosie had gotten mixed up and was going to drop by her apartment. Once she was there, he could come collect his property with no suspicion at all.

"Too bad, motherfucker," she murmured.

Rose was _her_ sister, and needed to be protected.

* * *

Randy sat behind the wheel of a nondescript little car and waited. It was Day Two of the stakeout, just the beginning. It didn't take that long to drive to Gotham if you were alone, but driving with a child and a dog would take considerably longer. All he had to do was sit, and wait, and then come pick up his runaway bride and take her home where she belonged.

He turned the radio up a little louder when he recognized a song and sang along with it. "Baby I need your lovin'! Got to have all your lovin'. _Baaaaby_ I need your lovin'…"

Oh yes he needed some lovin' all right. From his sweet, stupid, ditzy little Rosie with the big eyes and the snotty nose. Marrying her was like marrying a child sometimes.

Well, she had misbehaved. She had broken one of The Rules. The Rules could not be broken, and if they were broken, then there would be consequences. This time, it would be bigger than just a spanking or a time-out: she needed to know that he was IN CHARGE, and that she couldn't just break The Rules whenever she wanted.

His brow furrowed and his expression darkened even as he tapped on the steering wheel to the beat of the song. Before delivering her punishment, he would sit her down and talk with her and make sure she _knew_ what she had done was wrong. He wanted her to answer some questions.

Questions like, why exactly had she cleaned out their checking account?

And, what made her think she owned his _dog_ , that she could take _him_ with no consequences?

Not to mention little details like why had she taken their _son_ when his blood flowed through that kid's veins?

Yes, they would have to have a long talk. A nice, long, thorough talk while he explained in detail exactly what she was going to be punished for. She was going to be punished for being a thief and a bitch, but mostly a BAD WIFE.

 _(a horrible wife you trained her better than this)_

He _had_ trained her better than this. Why had she up and left now?

Well, it was no matter. He'd teach her to heel and walk and play fetch again, and keep her on a tight leash. Maybe literally. A smile tugged at his lips at that image and he changed the radio station.

"Sing…sing a song…make it simple, to last your whole life _looong_ ," he crooned.

Yes, she'd sing a hearty song when he was done. He'd teach her all her old tricks again.

Maybe even how to play dead.

"Wouldn't _that_ be a picture!" he laughed brightly, and his smile seemed to fill the whole car.

* * *

Bash woke up the next morning sucking his thumb. That was a bad sign, it was regression—he was almost four now, and Rosie worried about his teeth. "C'mon, champ, up and at 'em," she called out while unpacking one of his outfits from their bags. It was still early, the whole place bathed in a bluish-gray morning light. She didn't dare turn on the lights because she didn't know how much Doris would charge for the electric bill.

"I dreamed a bad dream," he muttered, rubbing his eyes. "I dreamed a monster."

She paused and looked at her little son, with his sleepy brown eyes and the duck fluff blonde hair that was beginning to turn dark with his age. "That's okay, we all dream about monsters sometimes," Rosie said and patted him comfortingly. "Come on, let's have some breakfast and then we'll get you changed into some clothes, okay?"

He mumbled something else and Rosie had to strain. "What was that?"

"He smiled at me," Sebastian said, blinking owlishly. Suck, suck, suck went the thumb.

A sweat sprang out over her neck and upper lip. "Was it Daddy?" she asked quietly, kneeling on the thin rug. "Did you dream of Daddy?"

She had been afraid of this. Her son, terrified of his own father—as well as he should be, but that was something no child should have to fear. She rubbed his cheek, soft with baby fat, and gently pulled his sticky thumb from his mouth.

He shook his head. "Nuh-huh. Not Daddy. A monster."

 _(your daddy is a monster)_

"Okay," she said, and kissed the top of his head. "Okay, well, I'll mix up a bottle of monster spray tonight. All right? Monster spray keeps the monsters away…" She started, and raised her eyebrows at him.

"An' when the monsters away, we can play," Sebastian finished, and this little charm always worked. He believed in the monster spray like some small children believe in God—in totality, in wholeness, and with sweet, childish innocence.

They would need a lot of monster spray over the next coming weeks. But Rosie didn't know that. She was trying very hard not to think about the writing on the wall, and this was made easier by her close inspection over breakfast. In this light, she couldn't see the writing at all, and was convinced she'd dreamed the whole thing.

 _You dreamed of monsters too,_ that reptilian voice in her head said matter-of-factly. Her father always spoke with that cold, calculating voice. _You just didn't know it. Think about it, Rosie, think about it, and you'll—_

No. She didn't want to think about it. It had been a weird dream, yes, and symbolic of something, certainly. But it hadn't been a nightmare or anything of the kind. It had been a terrible day, a terrible week, a terrible _life_ really, and she was going a little stir-crazy. That was all.

Rosie and Bash ate Cap'n Crunch, standing over the sink because they didn't have chairs. As the morning sunlight crept through the window, it began to light the place more completely; if Rose had turned around, she would have seen the writing illuminated quite clearly.

But she didn't.

She dressed Bash, called Aimee from a payphone outside, and pointedly did not look at the wall.

* * *

"Go ahead, go crazy," Aimee said with a smile, as her nephew goggled frankly around at the marvelous toys around him. "Anything in the shop, it's your choice. Auntie Aimee's treat."

He darted off, immediately heading for the toy planes, and Rose had to call out "Be careful!" because she was a mother and that's what they did. Still, it was nice to see Bash so excited about something, and even nicer that Aimee would buy him a toy. She didn't dare look at the price tags in this little toy shop, but this was Gotham after all, where a hot dog from a corner stand cost eight dollars.

"How are you doing?" Aimee asked finally, looking at her little sister.

Rosie nodded and tucked her hair behind her ear, looking up behind that thick fringe of bangs. She looked so small and helpless with that haircut, swaddled in that oversized black coat, and Aimee made a mental note to buy her a new coat. A new coat, a new haircut—something short and sleek and sexy, her sister could be very pretty if done up the right way—and maybe some new shoes. Yes, she could manage this quite nicely.

"I'm okay," Rosie shrugged. "I'm sorry I couldn't come yesterday, I…" she trailed off and laughed, a little ashamed. "I thought I saw Randy outside your apartment."

"You could've," Aimee said seriously. "He called me, looking for you."

Fear, raw and unmistakable, flashed across Rosebud's face. "What did you say? What happened?"

"Calm down," she soothed, "I told him I hadn't seen you. He was trying to make it seem like you'd popped up here for an unscheduled visit and that you were supposed to call. He made he sound like he planned the whole thing."

"He _would_ ," Rosie muttered. "I…I can't go near your apartment," she said, eyes round, "I'm sorry, I just…"

"No, you shouldn't. Stay where you are, I'm glad you got an apartment." She _was_ glad, but at the same time, she _wasn't_. Getting an apartment was something she wanted to do for her sister. Someplace nice, not fancy, but in a good neighborhood with a good school district. She already had a place in mind. Aimee had a feeling that Rosie was lying about the rent, too—there was no way rent in Gotham was a hundred bucks a month. That was ridiculous. She had probably spent most of her savings on the first month's rent and didn't want to tell her big sister because she would say it was foolhardy.

"I'll call the police," Aimee said. Rose shook her head immediately.

"No! No, don't do that. He's not on active duty right now, but he's still a cop." Rose bit her lip and looked for the top of her son's head. She found him over by the puppets, and relaxed a little. "Just…just wait a few days. He'll think I left for somewhere else, and he'll go home and try to get a few of his buddies to track me down."

She had planned this. It was why she had changed cars with the neighbors. The Cormac's were lovely people and were going up to Maine to visit their son for a few weeks, but their car was on its last legs. Rose had instantly offered to trade cars for the duration of the trip and it had worked like a charm. If Randy and his buddies traced the car—which would be their only option, she hadn't bought a bus ticket or used her credit card—they would track it up to Maine. That would buy her some time.

Enough time to get a restraining order.

"Are you sure?" Aimee persisted. "I really think—"

"Look, I know how to handle him!" Rose snapped.

"Clearly you _don't_ ," Aimee shot back, unable to help herself, "Otherwise you wouldn't have married him in the first place."

Rose reeled back as though she'd been slapped, and her cheeks flushed bright red. "High advice, Miss Divorced Twice."

Aimee cocked a cold eyebrow. "None of them beat me and my child, though."

As soon as she said it, she knew it was a mistake. Old, rusty hurt flashed across her sister's face and she turned away. Her hazel eyes were filling with tears and Aimee opened her mouth to apologize. _That sarcasm's gonna get you in trouble,_ she heard her father's calm voice say. _You wield that tongue like a whip, y'gonna cut someone_.

"Rose, I'm—"

"No, you're right," Rose said icily. "You're always right. You always make the right decisions. That's what you wanted to hear, right? You're always right, I'm always wrong, and I always come to _you_ to clean up my messes."

She left her older sister there in the middle of a toy shop and went to collect her son. Bash was sitting on the floor, staring at the puppet display, a very blank look on his face. She didn't like that look, it was almost as though her son were mentally challenged somehow.

 _(he could be, remember THE INCIDENT)_

No, he wasn't, he was a bright, healthy boy, the doctor said so. She crouched next to him. "Hey, Bash," she said quietly, ruffling his hair, hoping he couldn't hear the strain of tears in her voice. "What's up?"

He pointed at the puppets. "What's that?"

She looked at the little marionettes. They were exquisitely made, funny looking clowns and kings and dogs with upturned noses, all of them hanging on invisible strings from a little shelf built into the wall. It was probably a little old for the kids here, and definitely too old for Bash, who's favorite toys were an old model fighter plane and a box of Legos, but they were well made, nonetheless. Brightly colored with silly carved faces and soft cloth bodies, easy for hugging and playing with.

"They're puppets, babe," Rose said, and plucked one off the shelf. "See? You can make them walk and stuff."

"No, _that_ ," Sebastian specified, pointing towards a particular puppet. She examined it with a furrowed brow. It was wearing a funny jester's hat with bells on the end, and had multicolored striped pants and a vest. It wore a red nose and had fluffy hair, with a bright, huge smile on its face.

"That's just a clown, honey, they do tricks at carnivals and birthdays and stuff." It was mild looking, as clowns go—she could understand the fear some people had of clowns. Whoever thought clowns were funny or appropriate for children? Not her, definitely. Grown men in face paint, doing pratfalls and slapping pie in each other's faces. Grow up.

Bash allowed himself to be led away by his mother, out of the shop and away from his aunt, forgetting that he had been promised a toy. All he could think about was the monster he had dreamed, the monster who stood at the edge of his bed with a dripping knife and that huge, huge smile that stretched all the way around his head.

It had been a _clown_.

He was positive.

* * *

 _So delighted to wake up and see some reviews! :D Thanks for commenting, guys, that means a lot. Also I'm sorry if I'm teasing any non-commenting readers by not including the Joker yet, but he'll show up eventually, I promise. Sorry for any little spelling/grammar errors, I don't have a beta and I suck a proofreading. xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot_


	3. A TURN OF GOOD LUCK

**III**  
A TURN OF GOOD LUCK

* * *

She cried in the grimy bathroom of a fast food restaurant, while Max waited faithfully in their apartment and Sebastian stared at her worriedly from the changing station. It was a hot, raw flush of tears that left her throat dry and her knees wobbly—the kind of bone-deep cry that most little girls indulge in after their first heartbreak. But this was no adolescent tantrum; she was a much-too-young single mother, alone in a big city, with her psychotic ex-husband tracking her down. She had no one to turn to. Her face was wet, blotchy, and snot was running down her face. She wiped her eyes with a stiff, scratchy brown paper towel and leaned against the sinks.

"Mommy?" Bash spoke up, anxious and concerned, his tiny brow furrowing, "Mommy, are you okay?"

Rosie sniffled and tried to smile, but her lower lip kept trembling and she couldn't stop it. "Yeah, baby, Mommy's just trying…"

 _(trying not to have a psychotic breakdown)_

"…Trying to think of what to do next." She kissed Sebastian's hair and wiped her eyes as best she could. "Do you want to live with Auntie Aimee?" She asked this question seriously. If she had been alone, she would have fled the city immediately after her little spat with Aimee. Running to Tucson or Colorado Springs or Spokane seemed like very good, viable options for a twenty year old girl with a dog and a broken-down car.

But not for a single mother.

Bash's hand was creeping closer to his mouth. It looked like he wanted to suck his thumb very badly and Rosie smoothed his hair again, hoping to deter him.

"I dunno," Bash said, kicking his little feet. "I like Auntie Aimee."

"I do too," Rosie replied tremblingly, "I love her very much."

 _(but oh god she can be queen of the bitches sometimes miss high and mighty like she has everything under control)_

"Do you think we should stay with her?" Rosie asked her son. He was nearly four and sometimes frighteningly perceptive—he was a very bright boy. Being a mother was wonderful and frightening at the same time, like being in the eye of a storm. She hadn't planned on Sebastian but she refused to be the single mother who treated their child like a mistake. Sebastian would grow up in a loving home. Or so she had thought.

Bash's hand fluttered towards his mouth but he disguised it as a nose picking. "Umm…" he mumbled, and looked down, still swinging his feet. "Yeah…maybe…"

Rosie hugged her tiny son tightly. "Okay," she whispered against his soft cheek, "Okay, okay, okay. We'll go live with Auntie Aimee."

* * *

Ironically, twenty minutes after making this decision, the universe decided to reward her by destroying the car.

It was probably a nail from the fast-food place parking lot, but as soon as she got on the main road, the tire-pressure signal began flashing on her dashboard. The whole car was listing to the left and she heard a gummy, empty flap of loose rubber. It terrified her, and she tried to navigate into the breakdown lane while sweating bullets. She half made it, but was forced to jump out of the car and direct traffic around her rear bumper.

"Shit," she said thickly, looking at the flat tire. "God-fucking- _shit_ , this is _not_ what I need right now!" She slammed the heel of her hand against the hood and tried not to burst into tears again.

She was seventeen when she had Bash and before that had not been suitably equipped with any real life-skills. Randy had certainly not been interested making sure his wife functioned in the real world. Rosie had no idea how to change a tire and didn't have a cell phone to call a tow truck. She didn't even have one of those tow services, like Triple A, which would have helped immensely.

The only option would be to walk the three or so miles back to the gas station and find a payphone. And what to do with Bash? She would have to carry him.

These thoughts all flew through her mind in a matter of moments. Rosie contemplated it for a few seconds and then got to her feet and circled the car, popping the trunk to look for a spare tire. Where even _was_ the spare tire on this car? Under the carriage? In the trunk? She had no idea. Not to mention she wouldn't even know what to do when she found it.

She turned to face traffic and looked at the endless march of headlights for a wild, desperate moment. Could she flag someone down and try to hitch a ride? But there was no booster seat for Bash and this was Gotham, after all, the city with the highest crime rate in the country.

Just as she was thinking this, a Mercedes put in its blinker and pulled over into the breakdown lane. It was a ridiculously expensive looking car and she thought for a brief, irrational moment, that it was some rich person coming to tell her that she couldn't break down here.

An older black gentleman got out of the driver's side and started towards her. He was perhaps in his mid to late sixties, with hair that was beginning to powder white. His suit was impeccably tailored and he was dressed in casual business elegance—nice watch, gold earring in his left ear, and a mild silver tie around his neck. The man was probably wearing more in his suit than she had ever seen in her whole life.

"Got a flat?" he called out over the busy sound of traffic. His voice was rich, deep, and his friendly smile was reassuring.

She made a helpless, strangled gesture. "Yeah," she answered, her voice cracking.

 _(god you are so hysterical and pathetic you miserable whelp now STOP crying and act like a grown woman goddamnit!)_

He crouched down by the tire and tested it with his thumb. "Whew!" he exclaimed, and laughed. "Got quite a tear in there."

"I think it was a nail," she babbled, "from the parking lot. I don't really know, I'm not used to the city." As if flat tires were reserved strictly for strange, looming, unknown cities.

There was something kind about the way he looked at her—sympathetic, but not pitying. "A real country mouse, mm? I'm a city boy, born an' raised, so all this—" he gestured to the rushing traffic, "—doesn't bother me so much."

She tucked her hair behind her ear and smiled weakly at him. "Thank you so much for stopping," Rosie said. "I'm Rose, by the way, Rose—Springfield." The urge to add _Lloyd_ after her first name was a habit she would need to break. She wasn't married anymore, despite still keeping her wedding and engagement rings in the glove compartment.

"I'm Lucius," he said amicably, and began loosening his tie. "You got Triple A, ma'am?"

The fact that he called her ma'am, despite their obvious social class difference, was almost enough to drive her to tears again. She ground her teeth and gave a tired, watery laugh. "No, I'm afraid I don't," Rosie made another helpless gesture with her hands. "This is my first time in Gotham. I'm…"

She took a chance. "I'm alone."

That was her trouble. She was alone. There wasn't any support for her—she was too proud to reach out to a homeless shelter and refused to accept charity; only grudgingly did she turn to her sister and even then, she had stomped off at the first sign of condescension. What was _wrong_ with her?

Lucius surveyed her, honestly and openly, and then said calmly, "Don't worry, we're gonna get you all fixed up. Why don't you bring your son out of the car? He's your son, correct?"

"Yes," Rose said, and unbuckled Bash from the car seat, bouncing him on her hip. "His name's Sebastian."

The man was rolling up his sleeves and removed his tie, tossing it over the roof of the car. Seeing the callouses on his hands and his dark forearms calmed her somewhat—he moved quickly and with great surety, as though he'd done this thousands of times. He located the spare tire in moments and withdrew a perfectly functioning car jack.

"Thank you so much," Rose began, "Really, truly, thank you so much, I don't know how I can thank you."

He flashed her a wide white smile and shook his head. "No thanks necessary. Just pay it forward."

It took him less than ten minutes to change the tire, moving with a speed and dexterity that belied his age. Seeing the wealthy, well-dressed man lying on his back changing a tire was a far more humbling experience than Rose would have guessed. The far-narrower spare tire looked rusty and disused, but it would work for the time being. Now that the more immediate task was out of the way Rose was beginning to add up the cost of a new tire, and not liking the result. The only had four hundred and sixty dollars to their name; she had been planning on getting a job immediately, but she didn't expect something like this to happen.

"All set," he said easily. "There's a garage not far up the road."

"Thank you," she repeated, feeling grateful and useless all at the same time. It occurred to her that half her life she'd been relying on the kindness of strangers, like some old book heroine—and this was a bad thing for someone who didn't accept favors well.

"No problem, ma'am. I'll follow you up to the garage, make sure you get there safe. Gotham's a rough neighborhood, you know."

"I know," she said, feeling a wave of exhaustion crash over her. "I've spent the last thirty six hours finding out how rough it is."

He put his hands in his pockets and shrugged. "We give a pretty poor welcome, I s'pose, but it's worth sticking around. Gotham has its charm. Lotta good people."

"Like you," Rose said simply, and tried to hide the hysterical little laugh bubbling up in her chest. "Thank you again, I need to drive up to that garage." She tried to come across as casual and definitely not-desperate when she asked, "How much…how much do you think a new tire would cost?"

"Car like this?" Lucius said, eyeing the old vehicle, "Probably one-twenty, one thirty. Depending on how much the mechanics try to rob you blind." He smiled at that.

She nodded, feeling pale. "Okay…okay, thank you." Even at one twenty, that would put a serious dip in their savings. A chunk like that was unexpected. But they would learn to adapt—she could get by on one or two meals a day. It was making sure that Sebastian was fed properly that would be the trouble.

Lucius got back in his expensive car and she got back into her little old jalopy. It was a five minute drive to the mechanic and when they got there, she fully expected him to toot his horn and keep driving. Instead, he parked his car and got out, following her inside. Rose felt another wave of helplessness and gratefulness tug at her heart; she talked to the mechanic while he made a discreet phone call.

When he came back inside, she was sitting on one of the chairs in the waiting lounge feeling numb. "They said it'll cost about one sixty to replace," she said, trying and failing to sound offhand and neutral. Three hundred dollars. That's all she could think of. Three hundred dollars away from being penniless.

He sat next to her, sliding his jacket over the back of the chair, and fished around in his pockets. "Here," he said, giving a quarter to Bash, "Go ahead and get yourself a sucker from that gumball machine."

"What do you say, Bash?" Rosie reminded him. He looked up at Lucius and mumbled something that sounded like "thamkyoo" before rushing over to the gumball machine.

"You really don't have to sit and wait," she said to Lucius, "I mean, I'm sure you have places to be, you've done so much already."

He laughed quietly, jingling the change in his pockets. "Nope, I'm off the clock for the day. Besides, if my wife was broken down somewhere I hope someone would do this for her."

"Well, you're a very nice man," Rose said firmly, her lips tightening, "one of the few good ones."

"Oh, we're not that few and far between," Lucius said, taking a seat next to her. She wrinkled her nose.

"Experience has taught me otherwise," she replied, trying not to sound so burned out and bitter.

"That experience have anything to do with being alone in a big, new city?" he asked gently.

Rose looked away. "Yes," she said at least, and that one word was enough to put a crack in the dam. It wasn't like crying, but almost like word-vomit: each sentence explaining her situation burned coming out of her throat and she felt vulnerable and pathetic during the whole ordeal. She told him everything, how she had gotten pregnant at seventeen, had married Randy out of pride and a stupid, blind love; how she had stayed with him for three years despite the frequent beatings, the emotional and physical abuse. She half expected him to touch her or pity her in some way and she wouldn't have been able to stand that if he had. But Lucius was quiet and didn't interrupt or make sad, pitying noises so she took that as a good sign. By the end, she was crying a little and glad that Bash was off playing with the tire display so he wouldn't have to see his mother cry twice in one day.

When she was finished, Lucius didn't say anything, but wordlessly pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and handed it to her. She wiped her eyes, and made a funny _huh-huh-hah_ noise that could be interpreted as a breathy, sad laugh.

"So I'm just…here," she said at last, "I don't know if my ex-husband is going to spring from the woodwork and drag us back home, or we're going to die broke and alone in some homeless shelter somewhere."

Lucius was quiet for a very long moment, and she snuck a peek at him. He looked very grave. "When my mother was around your age," he began, looking at his own age-spotted hands, "she was in a similar situation. My daddy was nowhere to be found, you see, and so she was stuck tryin' to make a livin' for me and my sister. She got a job cleanin' folks' houses, workin' six days a week, eighteen hours a day sometimes, tryin' to put food on our table and clothes on our backs. Somethin' about mothers, they just 'bout work themselves to the bone for their children. But I wish there'd been someone around to give her a better job. Somethin' to make life a little easier."

He looked at her frankly and continued. "I'd like to offer you a job workin' at Wayne Enterprises, Miss Springfield."

She stared at him stupidly for a very long moment.

"Wayne…Wayne Enterprises?" Rose said, her voice turning funny and high-pitched. It sounded very far away in her own ears. _The_ Wayne Enterprises, one of the biggest corporations in the world?

"I _am_ the CEO," he said, with a trace of pride, "I think I'm qualified to hire a receptionist here and there. Do you have any experience in clerical work?"

Rose blinked very rapidly. It felt as though her heart had tripled in size and was pressing against the roof of her mouth. "I once scooped ice cream for a summer in high school," she replied thickly.

"You're hired." He said with a smile.

She gave up trying to talk and just flung her arms around him, attacking him in a hug.

* * *

That night, after Rose had bought herself and Sebastian a celebratory dinner of spaghetti and meat sauce, Major had a dream. As dogs go he was a remarkably faithful and astute one—cleverness was an inherent trait of German Shepherds and Major was no exception. He had a very vivid dream about being ALONE and a BAD DOG. He had done something wrong. He had let his master go somewhere she wasn't supposed to go. This place was not safe and someone was going to come and hurt them.

He woke up, terrified and whimpering, and immediately trotted into the other room to check on the little master. He was asleep, but it was not a good sleep either—Sebastian was having a nightmare, too.

While Major went back to the bedroom and comforted himself by sneaking onto the bed next to his master, Sebastian fought with his nightmare. The clown was back, standing at the foot of his bed with a black, dripping knife. His smile stretched all the way around his head and it should have toppled off, but it was stitched together oozily. Something rank and fetid, like the presence of a corpse, washed over Sebastian and the little boy cried out in his sleep.

 _Come here,_ the clown whispered shiveringly, and his voice sounded everything and yet nothing like Daddy's. _Look what I have for you_.

He held out his mommy's head like he was presenting a new toy. Mommy's pretty dark hair was matted with blood and her eyes were rolled way back up in her skull. Sebastian tried to roll backwards, crawl away from this horrible present but like in most nightmares, he couldn't move. He couldn't scream, either, and was frozen in terror as the clown approached and stood over him, grinning down.

 _Let's play_ , the clown breathed, _let's play let's play let's play let's play…_

* * *

 _So we have our first canon character! :D I do want her in the middle of the action but I thought this was way more realistic than, "Bruce Wayne sees a beautiful woman while driving in his convertible and offers her a job as his personal assistant on the spot". Not slamming any other stories that DO use that, it just feels…like, really unrealistic. xD Plus I feel like nobody uses Lucius Fox as a character in fanfiction, when he's actually quite interesting._

 _Don't worry ducklings, the Joker will show up within the next couple of chapters! Maybe even Bruce, who knows. :3 xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot_


	4. THE BEAST IN THE HOUSE

**IV  
** THE BEAST IN THE HOUSE

* * *

The new stockings made her feel, well, _sexy_. She had never owned a pair of stockings before getting her job, and she'd only been working there for just under a month-but she had _never_ owned a pair of stockings with a seam up the back. She smoothed her black pencil skirt and attacked her blouse with the lint-roller again; Major was shedding, and she needed to look professional.

Her job was easy enough: she was a receptionist on the third floor of Wayne Enterprises, which dealt mostly with their manufacturing warehouses. She was one of the newly hired receptionists and spent most of her time in a cramped back room, filing different shipping forms. However, every now and then she would be answering phones, fetching coffee, and mostly keeping to herself.

She plucked nervously at her stockings, feeling some kind of schoolgirl flutter of shyness; what if they drew too much attention? She had nice legs, to her knowledge, but she didn't want her coworkers thinking she was showing off.

What a change in mentality. A few weeks ago she had been cowed, flinching from loud noises and looking for Randy around every corner, and now she was checking out her legs in the mirror and trying to build up the courage to flirt a little with the nice shipping manager who paused by her desk every Wednesday.

 _(just enjoy this little bit of happiness it's okay to be happy don't worry you can breathe Randy is gone)_

She hadn't seen or heard from Randy in weeks. Aimee reported two weeks ago that he had returned home, and she called him to ask where his wife was. "Oh, she's home," he had reported brightly, his big smile pouring through the phone line, "Want me to put her on?"

No, that was fine, Aimee had said, and hung up. Rose was still jumpy, still expected him to pop out from around a corner or surprise her at work with a bouquet of flowers and a gun. But it was a little calmer, a little safer. She was able to admire her legs in the mirror for a little while without fearing that Randy was going to beat her with his belt for daring to attract other men's attention.

"Bash, are you ready?" she called out.

Major came around the doorway, wagging his tail, and she heard Sebastian yell out "Yeaaaaaah…" The German Shepherd nosed his head under Rose's hand, and she petted him absently.

"Be a good boy, okay, Major?" she said, and scratched the bridge of his long nose. "Bash, come on, get your things, the bus will be here any minute!"

Bash took the bus, and she took the subway. It was a short commute on a stinky, crowded subway car, but it saved trying to find a place to park in downtown Gotham. Sebastian was doing well in school, and she took great pride in this: his teacher loved him, and said despite his tumultuous move, he was doing well and making friends. They were beginning to settle.

In a few months, she decided, they would move. Someplace nicer, maybe in one of the suburbs outside of Gotham, with a better school system and nicer houses. A stuffy, cramped apartment wouldn't be good in the long term—Major needed a yard to run in, not just a walk every evening, and Sebastian needed a place to play besides a broken down playground.

And besides, there was still the matter of the wall.

She had bought another gallon of white paint and painted the wall again, feeling uneasily as though she were covering a crime scene. Somewhere in the back of Rose's mind, she knew that it wasn't red paint on those walls.

 _(it's blood and you're covering it up you're helping cover the blood)_

But that didn't matter now. What mattered now was getting Bash to school on time, going to work, and letting the cute shipping manager admire her legs.

* * *

The car was a hot, humid mess. It reeked of sweat, urine, and something else, something coppery and rank. Food wrappers and empty containers nearly filled the car. Flies buzzed around the stuffy interior, ignoring the rapidly festering mass in the driver's seat. Randy had long ago turned off the radio, but in his head the music never stopped. A pair of fuzzy dice swung from the rearview mirror, and he drummed his hands on the dashboard. He couldn't see the road in front of him as he swerved in and out of traffic.

"I keep a close watch on this heart of mine," he crooned under his breath, "I keep my eyes wide open all the time…"

Johnny Cash's deep voice rolled through his head like thunder, but it was doing little to stop the haze of red around Randy's vision.

She was gone.

She wasn't in Gotham.

He had been so sure, so _sure_ she would be here. This enraged him more than her departure, because that meant he _hadn't_ known his little bride as well as he thought. That meant she had been lying for a long time, that she had been planning this for a long time. It meant that his little lesson would have to be extensive. And it would include his son, too, because his _son_ was definitely a part of this. He could just hear it now. _Daddy's a mean man, Mommy…_

"Daddy's gonna bring you _home_ ," he breathed.

He took the exit for their small town. Some old, instinctive part of him knew that he needed to go home and get cleaned up, he needed to get a new car and play the part of the Worried Father and Dutiful Husband. He would get her back.

"Because you're mine, I walk the line," he hummed deeply, and then smiled.

As he pulled into his driveway, the red mist around his vision nearly obscured what was sitting next to his house. When he saw it, however, he slammed on the brakes.

There, sitting in his driveway, was _his car_.

An image popped into his mind—his little wife sitting tearfully in the house, holding their son, their dog at her feet, crying snottily because she had run out of money and gotten lost and Bad Terrible Things had happened to her. Because as bad as she _thought_ her husband was, the outside world was so much worse. In that split second, he considered forgiving her. She would never leave the house again, he would make sure of that.

But no. She needed to be taught a lesson.

He flung the door open and stumbled out onto his gravel driveway. In the backseat of his car was a tire iron, and he snatched it, gripping the heavy instrument so hard his knuckles went white. Wild eyed, unshaven, and stinking of his own filth, Randy staggered to the car his wife had stolen. Sitting on the seat was a note, and a plate of cookies.

The note said "For Rose and Randy!" with a exclamation point.

Slowly, feeling as though he was underwater, he opened the car door and took the note out.

 _Dear Rose and Randy,_

 _Thank you so much for offering to trade cars! We had a lovely time in Maine. Please enjoy these cookies as a token of our appreciation, and we can trade back at your earliest convenience._

 _Sincerely,_

 _Bob and Terry Cormac_

He crumpled the note in one strong fist and stared across the street at the neat little cape where the Cormac's lived.

Tire iron still in hand, he advanced upon the little house.

* * *

Arms full of groceries, Rosie fumbled with her keys. Usually, she would make dinner and get things situated while Aimee drove Bash home—thankfully Sebastian had somewhere to go after school, because Rose worked until six. Tonight, she was going to throw a pizza in the oven and hope for the best, because she was exhausted. The cute shipping manager had hesitated by her desk and mentioned something about the weather—Rose had shyly crossed her legs and asked about his weekend. Very boring office flirtation, but it was new and terribly exciting for her. Not that it would go anywhere; it was just a nice little exercise of femininity. Something Randy allowed her to have precious little of.

It was very dark inside the apartment, and Rose stopped cold. It was like a chill, stealing over her spine, in between her fingers and toes. Someone was in her apartment. Something…not human.

"Major?" she called out.

There was no response. Something cold prickled through her, and the bottom of her stomach dropped out. Carefully, eyes darting around the room, she lowered her grocery bags to the floor, and squeezed her keys tightly in her hand. Her house key and car key poked through her knuckles and she clenched her fist tighter.

"Randy?" Rose called softly.

 _(oh thank god sebastian is at aimee's oh praise jesus oh sweet god he'll kill me)_

There was a low growl from the next room. Around her, the darkness chuckled.

"Hello?" There was a thready, needy sound of fear in her voice.

The darkness breathed wetly, and there was another low growl.

She snapped on the lights and both of her fists came up, one of them shaking, the other steady and holding onto her metal keys for dear life. In the split second that her eyes adjusted, she saw a splotch of red, and that burned into her retinas as an afterimage.

Major was stock still, standing in the center of the room, his ears flat against his head, fur standing up along his spine, muzzle rippled in a permanent snarl. Across the room, sitting against the wall, was a man, sitting in a puddle of blood.

Not a man.

For a moment the dog and human blurred and she just saw some giant, grinning, wolfish hybrid of clown and animal, and then she blinked sweat from her eyes and it was gone. She trembled.

"Hell _lloooo_ ," the man whispered with a wet, rattling laugh. All she could see was his smile, a huge smile, baring teeth like a caged animal. It was red and went from ear to ear, his blackened eyes leaping out of a white, greasepaint colored face.

And in that moment she saw why Major hadn't attacked the man yet—he was holding a gun, pointed straight at the dog. Now, the barrel of the gun shifted slightly, and it was trained on her.

" _Looove_ what you've done with the place," the man wheezed.

* * *

 _Finally an update! I had completely forgotten about this story and then stumbled upon_ _it completely innocently while browsing for more fic. And then when I wanted to continue it, I couldn't remember my login information! But here I am, I'm back, and I hope to have some more updates in the upcoming days. Stay tuned! xoxo, Sassy Bigfoot_


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